Twisted Princess
by SilverInkblot
Summary: III - Breaking curfew was never this bad. Cinderella.
1. Paint the Roses Red

Picture your own personal Wonderland. Go on. It's a nice little place, isn't it? Green trees provide shady recesses from a cloudless blue sky and a brook bubbles its way to a river and the river flows its way into the sea. Happy flowers drift back and forth in the easy breeze and there are always plenty of dandelions to wish upon, and the night is just as beautiful as the day. It's _wonder_ful. It's the place Alice always dreamed of.

It's not the place she got.

* * *

Wonderland swirls around in her head as the card soldiers drag her back into the hedge labyrinth, back to the Queen, back into the epicenter of madness. The roses have grown out of control here, black thorns ripping at her clothes and hair, and she feels a trickle of blood running down her shin and staining her white leggings. The stain grows as the card soldiers drag her past the Queen's last victim, still fresh from the chopping block, a pool of blood draining from the stump of neck. Alice blanches, tries not to scream, not to think about it, but it's there in her mind's eye, waiting for her to close them again. And she's not sure which is worse, her imaginings or the grisly scene before her here at the center of the garden. The Queen didn't even offer the "guilty" the privilege of a decent burial. The bodies of card soldiers and lizards and rabbits and humans were everywhere in various stages of decay, beheaded and then tossed aside to make room for the next victim. And there were victims aplenty, but not enough to satiate the Queen's bloodlust.

Alice notices the roses here are red, dark, dark red, blood red. And she sees the little trenches flowing around the bushes, all connected at the chopping block, and she's horrified to realize why the Queen's garden is in constant need of fresh prey. The roses are watered with blood, and it is this that creates their color.

And it's her turn to water the roses.

* * *

There was a smile in the rosebushes.

The Cheshire Cat could always find a reason to smile, even in the blackest of circumstances. In this case, he was glad it wasn't his head about to feed the roses. Still, he had led the little girl here, and his smile faltered briefly at the slightest twinge of guilt. But it passes quickly, and his trademark grin was back before you had time to blink. And he didn't want to miss the show.

* * *

Alice was shoved roughly on to the block of wood. She could feel the ridges on her neck where previous axe blows had made a clean sweep through the neck and dove deep into the wood. The Jack of Clubs was her executioner tonight. He raised the axe high. . .

There was a metallic _slice_, and a heavy_ thump_ followed quickly by a softer _thump_ as Alice's head dropped to the ground.

* * *

Long after the executions were over for the day, a strange scene began to unfold in the Garden.

The Cheshire Cat faded into the visible spectrum next to the body of Alice. He giggled are grinned, sat her headless body up against the block. He dislocated his own head and placed it on her body.

"Oh yes, I do give myself such good advice. It's too bad I didn't listen."

He faded away into a purple smoky substance and reached himself into Alice's lifeless form and all went still.

Then her hands began to twitch.

Her fingers wiggled and her arm lifted its way off the ground. She got to her feet unsteadily, and groped about for her head. Inwardly, the Cheshire Cat was smiling an even bigger smile than usual. He had found himself a most interesting new toy to play with.

* * *

It was later, after he grew bored of terrifying Wonderland residents that he realized to potential of his little marionette. It was so easy to control Alice. It would be just as easy to control Wonderland itself. The Queen of Hearts was no match for the Joker card in the deck. Oh yes, he was a twisted cat indeed. His tail twitched about and he began to purr.

But for now, domination could wait. The roses were due for watering again.

* * *

_Inspired by jefftoon01's "Twisted Princess" series. For the picture of Alice, follow this link; __.com/art/Twisted-Princess-Alice-131282943_

_A bit of a departure from my normal style, but I like it a lot. I *may* be doing the other pictures in the series as well. We'll see._


	2. Narcoleptic

_And I..._

_Know it's true,_

_That visions are seldom all they seem._

* * *

It was nothing, nothing at all. Just a little prick, and then she was falling asleep again, dreaming again. Because she didn't want to face reality, she just wanted to go back to bed and dream her little dreams and forget, forget everything.

_She was dancing on thorns, on shards of glass and pieces of shattered memories. Her bare feet were bleeding, and her prince held her tighter, she was suffocating, she was choking, she was falling asleep again, drowsiness overtaking her body, despite the needling sharp pains in her feet, and yet she danced on, circling and spinning in her trance._

Because what had she ever had? No knowledge of her betrothal, her birthright, not even her own name, and they just want her to accept it, accept your new reality and go back to sleep, back in the tower and dream on and on...

The enchanted spinning wheel was nothing - that curse could be broken. It didn't supply her with anything like this, these feelings of happiness, of escape. She was dreaming, she was dancing, not on thorns, but on clouds, clouds spun from opium threads, and sprinkled poppy seeds, and there it was, her spindle, her needle, and now she could dream whatever she wanted.

She dreamed of handsome princes on horseback and dragons breathing green fire; of a dark, thorn-circled tower under a perfect silver moon. She danced from dream to nightmare, whisked away from her forest home and locked away, back in the tower, the spinning wheel before her, calling her with its false promises, jumbling her memories until she could no longer tell dream from nightmare, reality from fantasy. She dreamed of her prince and her kingdom, squirrels and rabbits in boots, a black sorceress, with wings like a crow, and little fairies waving wands over her head.

_Beauty for the tiny princess. Golden hair, blue eyes, and fair features. Beautiful in consciousness, and beautiful in sleep._

_A song for the sweet princess. A voice like the nightingale, to sing of her dreams._

_A curse upon the little princess. To sleep forever, cold and alone, without the warmth of her dreams to comfort her._

_A promise for __the sleeping__ princess;_

_**Someone will come to save you.**_

* * *

_Relocated here as I though it fit with the Twisted Princess theme quite nicely. - SilverInkblot_


	3. Twelve Strikes

No one mentioned this part of the spell.

_You must be back before the stroke of midnight, or the spell will be broken._

Cinderella had been obedient her entire life. Every command was followed to the letter_, _every whim catered to; no request of her step – relatives was denied. And then her dreams had been handed to her on a silver platter with but one condition; a time limit. A curfew. A single command. And she had broken it as surely as if she'd dropped the glass slipper.

The night had slipped away in a blur of colors and the rustle of ballgowns swishing past. She noted the jealous glares from the corner of her eye but paid them no mind. Her eyes only had room for him – her prince. What was his name again?

The gardens glowed in the moonlight coating everything with a silvery blue sheen. The water was smooth as glass, like a black mirror, the clocktower reflected the wrong way round, time was all twisted and then the first strike tolled.

The bell tone rolled through the courtyard, louder and louder, the vibrations rippling the still waters and hitting her like a wave; she felt her glass slippers shake around here feet and a second strike landed its mark, this time ringing with a note of dread.

She had to leave. Now.

She grabbed at her gown, lifting it enough so that she could run. She darted between dancers and suitors and made for the hall just as the third bell tolled. Past the guards. There was the carriage, her driver beckoning to her urgently. She faltered slightly on the stairs and lost a slipper. Strike four. No time to go back. He was behind her, calling to her, reaching for her. She looked back from the carriage window at his heartbroken face – then they were off. Strike five – or was it six?

The horses galloped over bumpy roads and knotted roots, faster with every chime. She would have bruises in the morning. The carriage took a sharp curve – she grabbed for something, anything. The horses screamed as the carriage tumbled, taking the party with it as the bells struck nine.

She crawled from the wreckage, dizzy and lightheaded. Something red stained her dress. The house was just in view. She took a step.

Strike ten.

She clutched at the ears. The bells were in her head, clanging in her head. Each one expounded upon the other and the racket echoed within. She fell back on her knees. She felt the texture of burlap against her legs. The broken carriage was becoming overgrown with vines creeping over like an exceptionally fast ivy.

Strike eleven.

Home. Right there. Just out of reach. She forced her legs to work, feeling as though she were moving through water, through a strong current in her heavy ballgown. Her skin – what was wrong with her skin? There were stitches weaving over her face, criss - crossing through her mouth. She took another step forward.

Strike twelve.

The remaining glass slipper shattered under her weight. She tried to scream, but the stitches held her mouth in place. Her spine felt stiff as though someone had shoved a pole up her back. Her feet were bleeding, cut by glass shards, her feet were bleeding all over the grass. Her straw yellow hair was now actually made of straw, prickling her face and sticking out over her black button eyes. The drone of the bells faded away over the silent night landscape as Cinderella and her pumpkin carriage were overtaken completely by the vines.

* * *

In a distant cornfield, a scarecrow stood at attention. It was a strangely effeminate scarecrow, dressed in a blue ballgown with puffy sleeves and elbow length gloves. The farmers youngest son swore up and down that the thing was alive, but few listened, least of all his father. No matter – it did a wonderful job of keeping the crows away.

* * *

_Cinderella stories typically turn out happier than this. But a fairy is a fairy and Cinderella is an old story; you don't fulfill the fairy conditions and bad things **will **happen to you :)_

_I'd like to do a few more chapters for the Halloween season. I've already got one vote for Belle up next. We'll see._

_- SilverInkblot  
_


End file.
